


Take My Hand And Leap

by ArwenLune



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Community: hobbit_kink, Crafts, Dwarves are craftsmen, F/M, Fill, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I don't normally write this sort of thing, Kink Meme, Politics, Thorin really tries to make this marriage thing work, and actually succeeds, craftmanship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/ArwenLune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dain's daughter was not present when last he went to the Iron Hills, and he has not seen her since she was hiding in her mother's skirts. So when the match is proposed to him Thorin almost recoils in horror. Marriages to cement alliances are not unheard of, nor do dwarves find them distasteful if neither party is forced into it. But the girl is younger than his nephews - 70 perhaps, no older.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/7346.html?thread=16242866#t16242866) It is decided that Thorin must marry for political reasons (pre-Quest, post-BoFA AU, general AU where Dain agrees to support the quest if Thorin marries his daughter - anything, I'm not picky).  
>  Now, ladies are rare, ladies fit to marry a king a rarer, and Thorin ends up with a bride who's just barely of age. Basically, I want to see Thorin, at almost 200, with his history, his baggage and his battle scars, to wed & bed a nervous little virgin girl for the good of the kingdom.  
> TL;DR: Seasoned but Troubled Warrior + Innocent Young Girl + Politics.

Dain's daughter was not present when last he went to the Iron Hills, and he has not seen her since she was hiding in her mother's skirts. So when the match is proposed to him Thorin almost recoils in horror.   
  
Marriages to cement alliances are not unheard of, nor do dwarves find them distasteful if neither party is forced into it. But the girl is younger than his nephews - 70 perhaps, no older. Thorin knows that even after he has reclaimed Erebor he is no easy man to live with. Dis has said so often enough, but at least his sister has the experience and fortitude to stand up to him and tell him off when he is brooding. What on Mahal's sweet earth would he do with a wife so young she could be his child.. grandchild almost? He will not marry one he knows will be made miserable by the arrangement.   
  
He has already written the letter suggesting that Frera marry Fili instead. It's a much better match to his mind. His nephew is courting a young lady freshly arrived from Edhel Luin, but no promises have been made, and Fili understands duty. He will suffer this, if asked.   
  
Then another letter arrives from the Iron Hills, to say that Dain is coming to visit, and brings his daughter with him.   
Perhaps he can put Fili next to her at the dinner table and they will make a match of it themselves. Surely Dain will see the wisdom of this.   
  
  
He is in his forge when a messenger arrives from the gate - Dain's party has arrived. Greeting such an important friend and ally in his stained smithy clothes is not what he'd intended for such an significant meeting, but neither is letting them wait, so he makes haste, wiping his hands on a cloth as he goes.   
  
Dain has left his elder two sons in charge of his keep, and his wife does not travel. When they have greeted each other, he makes a gesture, and somebody steps forward from his party.   
  
"My daughter, Frera."  
  
She is dressed for travel, and her deep brown hair is caught up in simple braids. Soft, silky looking whisps of hair frame her jaw, and she is sturdy like a dwarf ought to be. He bows over her hand, small in his and calloused. They exchange greetings that feel very formal for all that he is dressed in an old shirt with half the sleeves ripped off, his arms stained with sweat and soot. And oh, she is lovely, and so very young.   
  
She is also regarding him with a frankly sceptical look that tickles him a little. He knows he can be imposing, but she does not look cowed. That is good, whether she marries Fili or him. Timidness serves nobody marrying into the line of Durin, let alone a royal household ran by Dis.   
  
Dain is greeting Balin as they walk into the halls that lead toward guest quarters. Thorin walks with Frera, feeling like he ought to be saying something but unable to decide what, so they are silent. He's never been good at small talk.   
  
"What are you making?"  
  
He glances at her, sees genuine interest, and almost smiles.   
  
"I am working on a different sort of join in the shoulderplates of my armour," he explains. "To improve the range of movement."  
  
"Is not your armour similar to what my father wears?"  
  
"It is, but your father wields a different weapon. My new sword requires more range of motion."  
  
"Ah." she nods. After a minute he realises that she is looking down to the floor as they walk. He kicks himself, because she was talking to him freely and he's not sure how, but apparently he's made her stop.   
  
"What do you make?" he says finally. That she has at least one craft is a given - there isn't a Dwarf who does not - but she does not have the hands of one who writes music.  
  
"Oh!" she blinks her attention back to him, perhaps worried she has been the one who was impolite. "I-I cast metal," she subconsciously touches her cloak pin, an intricate design that has clearly taken some skill, "and I am learning to blow glass."  
  
"There is a glassblower in Dale, but his work is crude," he replies, telling her about the level of workmanship he has seen.   
  
They arrive at the visitor's quarters then, and Thorin takes his leave with another bow over her hand. She blushes a little.   
"I look forward to seeing you at dinner," he says, and to his surprise, he means it.


	2. Chapter 2

She seems to like Fili well enough, but it is him she sits next to at dinner, quiet and polite. He tries to be courteous, to pay her attention despite not quite knowing what to do with her, and she visibly shines under his attention.   
  
He wonders if she truly wishes to be his bride, or if Dain has simply told her this is how things will be.   
  
Because this is how things will be, it rapidly becomes clear to him. Erebor needs the support of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and Dain will not hear of a match with Fili. Even if he would, Dis informs him Fili is getting more serious with the lady he is courting.  
  
Thorin has always known that if he were to take a wife, it might be thus - somebody he has not chosen, who has not chosen him. They have spoken enough that he feels confident she will not be miserable, but he still resents it more for her sake than for his own.   
  
The courting is a formal affair, played out in the public halls and during dinners. He tries not to draw attention to her too much, seeing how uncomfortable it makes her. She is used to being the daughter of Dain, but she grew up in his keep, knows the people there. Having the scrutiny of hundreds of unknown dwarves is something she will need to grow into.   
  
Dis plans the wedding with her usual ruthless efficiency. Dwarves don't put too much stock in ceremony, but a royal wedding is still cause to invite their nearby allies and hold a big banquet in the main hall.  
  
The wedding happens ten days after he first met Frera. Thorin wears his ceremonial armour, and she is decked out in the finest cloth Erebor has to offer, her elaborately braided hair shot through with so many gemstones that she moves her head very cautiously.   
  
It is garb fit for a queen, and beneath her proud bearing and practised smiles he sees how unsettled she is. When he kisses her for the first time, cradling her face in his hands for a gentle press of lips, he can feel her trembling.   
  
"You are well come in my life," he says to her in Khudzul, in a low voice that is for her ears only. She gives him a small, tremulous smile.  
  
The banquet is a blur of diplomatic conversations - he may have made peace with Thranduil, but that doesn't mean he likes the elf. It is not dissimilar to a game of chess, and in his attentiveness to the political situation he doesn't notice until dessert that Frera has been sitting quietly by his side.   
  
She looks small and perhaps a little lost under the heavy royal headdress that is the traditional gift of a king to his queen. She has eaten very little, though he knows her to have a healthy enough appetite normally.   
  
She will have to find confidence in situations like this, though he can perhaps understand that in the company of her father, Dis, Balin, Bard and Thranduil she does not feel it is her place to speak. Fili has been mostly silent also, observing carefully the political game played by his elders.


	3. Chapter 3

Servants have moved her things to his quarters during the banquet, and after the formal part of the evening is over, he makes their excuses and brings her there.   
  
She stays just inside the door while he walks around and checks that everything has been arranged to his satisfaction. The fire has been lit, and there is a tray with tea and sweet breadrolls still warm and fragrant from the oven.  
  
He commissioned some new furniture for her things, and Bifur and Bofur have, as usual, exceeded his expectations with their woodwork. The beautiful dresser is half empty; most of her belongings still reside in the Iron Hills.   
  
"Come here," he says finally, realising that she still has not moved.   
  
Her gaze is at the level of his boots, and he reminds himself that this is their wedding night, an occasion that is rather more daunting for her than it is for him.   
  
When she is before him he reaches out and slowly lifts the royal headdress from her head, turning away to put it on the stand incorporated in the dresser for this purpose. When he turns back she is standing very still.  
  
He takes out the heavy, gem-studded comb from her hair, and she blinks when he kisses her forehead.   
  
"There. Now you can at least move," he says. Seeing her confusion - did she truly think he would undress her and take her directly to his bed? - he gestures to the sofa by the fire. "Shall we have tea? Dressed however you feel most comfortable," he adds, unbuckling his ceremonial armour.  
  
It takes him a few minutes to place the ceremonial weapons and armour on the stand in the corner of his quarters. He takes off the heavy leather surcoat and his boots, leaving the shirt, trousers and jerkin he wears underneath. He doesn't want her to feel he is undressing, either, but he's worn these things all day and it is a relief to be out of them.   
  
When he turns back she is perched on the edge of the sofa, still in her heavy ceremonial dress. As a concession toward comfort she has taken off her shoes and the stiff, heavily gem-studded gorget.  
  
"Good," he says, because she looks very much like she is worried about taking a wrong step. He sits down next to her, not close enough for their legs to touch, but close enough to easily share the plate of rolls.   
  
He offers her one with a meaningful look.   
"I noticed you did not eat much."  
  
"Forgive me, I did not..." she trails off, accepting the roll.   
  
"There is nothing to forgive, I am only concerned that you are hungry," he says, scraping together every ounce of patience he possesses. "I know this is all new to you." He considers that for a moment, and adds, "It is new to me too."   
  
She glances at him with surprised eyes, and he smiles slightly.   
"Both being King of the mountain, and being wedded."


	4. Chapter 4

The warmth of the fire and the sweet rolls seem to relax her a little, and they talk about how long it will take for her things to arrive from her father's keep. Some weeks at least. She has brought what she needs - and he can provide anything else easily enough - but she misses her books and her craftswork. She's pulled her legs up under her on the sofa as she tells him about her latest project.   
  
"I have given orders for half of my forge space to be made suited for casting and glass work," he says. His personal forge is overly large for one, and he likes the idea of working there together. He'd intended it to be a gift for when it was ready, but from the way she lights up he's pleased to have told her now.   
  
He takes her hand in his own, and she does not stiffen as she had before.   
  
"Frera.." he says, struggling for words. "I want you to be happy here, as my wife. But..." it takes only her worriedly widening eyes to realise this is a bad moment to pause. "But I am old-" he shakes his head to stop her denying this, "-and set in my ways, and unaccustomed to having a wife."  
  
He strokes her hand with his thumb.  
  
"You will need to tell me if I make you unhappy, or if there is something I could do to make you happier," he says finally, feeling this is a clumsy way of putting it but unable to think of a better one. "And that includes what we do in our chambers."  
  
She blushes.  
  
"I have no wish to do anything that hurts you, or makes you uncomfortable, or that you simply do not enjoy - but I will need you to tell me. Can you do that?"  
  
Slow, hesitant nod.   
  
"I promise I will never be wroth with you for speaking out."  
  
She nods with her eyes on their entwined hands, and he smiles a little. He draws her hand up to his lips, and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. A shiver runs through her arm, and he lightly rubs his beard against the sensitive skin.   
  
Her lips curl up a little, and he feels an unexpected wash of affection for her, for how bravely she faces being thrown into deep waters. He leans in and kisses that tentative smile, and _oh_ it has been a long time. He's had a few lovers over the long years in Ered Luin, but it has been at least two decades since he's kissed anybody.   
  
She leans in a little when he draws away, subconsciously chasing the contact, and he puts the now empty plate on the ground so he can turn more fully toward her.   
  
She leans into his touch when he cups his hand along her jaw, and returns his kiss eagerly enough that he relaxes a little. He is not pushing her - it's a relief to realise that she wants this, and not out of duty.   
  
After an indeterminable amount of time, her hand comes up to trail his face, fingertips tracing his jaw, then to his neck and the braids there. He shivers a little at the feeling of her small, strong hand curling into his neck, and slides his own hand into her hair, letting the kiss deepen slowly.   
  
When it ends she looks a little dazed, and he makes an effort not to hide his own quickened breath. It is not a weakness to be seen to be affected. Especially not by his wife.  
  
She smiles a little, and he finds himself answering that smile without hesitation.


	5. Chapter 5

They spend a long time on the sofa, trading kisses and gentle touches. Her hands grow a little bolder, exploring his chest, his back, until he raises an eyebrow and unlaces the leather jerkin, leaving only his thin linen shirt.   
  
For her part she is still in the heavy formal court dress, which is restricting her motions and surely has to be very warm.   
  
He has seen Dis often enough in various stages of court dress to know that there is a complete undergarment that is hardly indecent. Perhaps the dress is a form of armour she still feels she needs.   
  
So he enjoys kissing her neck, unpinning her elaborate hairstyle and tossing all the gems into a bowl, running his fingertips over her scalp. It makes her eyes drift shut and there is a quiet, low sound of pleasure that makes his blood rush in his ears.   
  
Her face is flushed, and not long later she abandons tracing the ridges of a scar on his shoulder to pluck at the lacing of her dress. He watches her for a moment, raising his brows when she glances at him with frustration in her eyes.   
  
He isn't quite sure what plays over her face in that moment, but there is amusement and exasperation, and then she turns away from him so he can reach the lacing on her back.   
  
"Please?" she says over her shoulder, a curtain of hair falling before her face.   
  
He gets to his feet and pulls her up too, her back to him, and then swallows thickly at how trustingly she stands before him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. At how coarse and scarred his hands look next to the smooth skin of her elegant neck.  
  
She tilts her head back to give him an upside-down look, and it surprises a laugh out of him. Shaken out of his hesitation, he gathers her hair, lays it forward over her shoulder, and begins working on the laces.   
  
It takes a few minutes to undo all the various closures, and then he helps her step out of the stiff, heavy fabric. When she is clear he brings the dress to its hanger, so a valet can take care of it in the morning. After years of living rough that still amuses him, that he's been drilled in the proper care of fancy garments. Was a time he thought they'd never have anything but coarse-spun shirts and patched trousers ever again.   
  
Frera is standing where he left her, looking suddenly uncertain again. She is fidgeting with the seam of her long linen underdress.  
  
He steps in close, acutely aware of the diminished layers between them, and gently cradles her head in his hands. Gives her a smile, and a kiss to the forehead, and just holds her until she relaxes into his hands. She has her hands on his biceps, idly scraping her nails on the thin linen in a way that gives him shivers.   
  
She leans in a little, rising up on her tip-toes to kiss him, and oh, that does things to him. He moves his hands to her waist to steady her, feeling the stretch of her muscles, the heat of her body through the dress. He smiles into the kiss when her arms move to his sides, a little tentatively at first and then more confidently slipping around his back.  
  
Chests and stomachs touching, they can feel each other breathe, and he takes a moment to enjoy that simple closeness. He strokes her back, long passes from her shoulders down to her hips. Her lips trail along his jaw and then to his neck, and he shivers at the feel of her breath against the base of his throat.   
  
When she tugs the neckline of his shirt to the side to give herself room, he disengages and pulls it off over his head instead. Her eyes go wide, and she blushes.  
  
He hides a grin. He's always been tall for a dwarf, and years of smithing have filled him out, made him strong and solid. The lean years are over now they have Erebor again, and he's gained back the weight he lost on the quest, softening what were once harsh angles of his shoulders and ribs.   
  
Her hand twitches with an impulse that's quickly stifled. He reaches out to take it, brings it up to kiss it, and then brings it to his chest, placing it over his heart.   
  
She leans a little weight onto her hand, making the contact a solid connection. It suddenly strikes him that he's _married_ , that she's his _wife_ , that she will be there for the rest of his _life_.   
  
It's a little strange still, but not an unappealing idea. Not at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Frera's small, strong fingers are trailing through his chest hair, and he exhales sharply at the sensation of it, somewhere between ticklish and tantalising. Her hand stills, but then she catches his look and a small, slow smirk blooms on her face. Then she moves her hand again, more deliberate this time.   
  
Oh, he _likes_ this. This is promising.   
  
For a few minutes he does nothing more than holding still and letting her explore, letting her cause shivers down his back. She traces his spine with her short, blunt nails and he makes an involuntary sound in the back of his throat. It feels so good just to be touched, to be the subject of her careful, curious attention.   
  
To distract himself from the way his body responds to her, he concentrates on the elegant line of her neck, traces her jaw with his thumbs. Lets his hands slide along the neckline of her underdress, pulling the lacing at the throat open a little wider. He leans down to mouth at her collarbone, feeling her hands go still on his back.   
  
He kisses along her throat, laving attention on where he can feel her heartbeat pounding under her skin. She makes a shivery exhale, and he smiles against her skin, one hand spread out between her shoulderblades to keep her steady.   
  
He looks at her as he pulls the end of the laces through the top holes in the dress, questioning eyebrow raised. _Is this all right?_  

She nods, blushing.  
  
She has only a thin shift underneath, made of the fine, gossamer fabric the Elves make. He pulls the linen dress open until it gapes and he can trace his fingers and then his tongue along her bare shoulders. She's small, but not slight - strong shoulders, used to swinging a hammer. The taste of her skin goes straight to his head, sweat and musk and something spicy.   
  
Her hands are idly stroking his sides just above his belt, but he doesn't think she's really focused on anything except what he is doing. Her breath hitches a little when he sucks a kiss at the cap of her shoulder, then mouths his way across her neck to the other side. She makes a tiny sound in the back of her throat, and shivers.   
  
"All right?" he says against her skin, voice pitched low.   
  
She makes another inarticulate sound, and he is just about to ask her for clarification when she starts tugging at the laces of the linen dress, widening the neckline enough that it can slide down her shoulders.   
  
He moves to behind her, humming his approval and pleasure against the nape of her neck. The dress slides down her hips and then pools on the floor, and she shivers. Tension, perhaps, because it isn't cold. He forces himself to slow down, to not immediately explore those newly revealed breasts, with their temptingly hard nipples.   
  
As he steps around to face her again he glides his hand from the nape of her neck down her spine, fingers dipping under the fabric of her shift. The look she gives him is a little tremulous, so he gently tips back her head and kisses her, slow and heady.


	7. Chapter 7

He makes an effort to keep himself in check, to not move faster than she seems ready for. It doesn't take long until they are pressed chest to chest though, with only the gossamer shift between them.  A low groan escapes him.

It's been such a very long time since anybody touched him, since he felt skin to skin and breath against breath. He basks in it, enjoys it for what it is and not just for what will come. He idly thinks that if this is all they will do tonight, he will not be disappointed.

He kisses her again, thorough and unhurried. She sags against him a little, and he puts an arm around her to anchor her to his chest. When they come up for air, he can't help smiling down on her, on her flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.

Her hands are on his shoulders, and he can feel her fingertips trace the skin there, cautiously exploring the scar left by an orc blade.

A hundred and twenty years in exile have left their marks on him, and that was before the quest and the battle of the five armies. There isn't much skin that doesn't have a scar of sorts, be it faded with time or recent and fresh.

Frera's skin is so smooth it's almost startling, and he feels every single one of his years when he thinks about how his rough, calloused hands must feel to her.

He must have been sunken in thought for a moment, because the next instant he feels her mouth at his collarbone, and startles a little at her scrape of teeth. Perhaps drawing his attention back to her was her intention. He gives her a mock-stern look and gets the quirk of a grin in return.

He chuckles and turns her around, liking how her back fits against his front, how wonderful it is to feel her leaning into him. How he can bury his face into her hair and take in the scent of the herbs and soap she uses for her hair.

He runs his hands down her arms, back up, and then down her sides. She freezes on a strange exhale, and it takes him a long moment to realise that he hasn't hurt or upset her, that she's ticklish.

He experimentally runs the backs of his fingers along her ribs, and is rewarded with a tiny, stifled squeak.

He feels such a rush of warm affection for her that he laughs softly into her hair. Mahal knows neither of them have chosen this situation, but for the first time he begins to believe that they might make a happy enough life out of it.


	8. Chapter 8

They end up in bed, slowly exploring skin and trading gentle, intoxicating kisses. When the mood takes them to slowing down rather than heating up, he smiles into her hair and pulls her close against his side. They are both weary from the day, and he sees no reason to pursue a consummation now if the mood does not take them there. There will be time enough later.

As she pillows her head on his shoulder and sleepily rubs her cheek against his skin, he can't regret it for even a moment.

 

* * * 

  

"Would you like help?" he asks her, looking up from his examination of yesterday's work. Frera is getting ready to take molten glass out of the furnace. Her dark hair is braided back and damp with sweat, and she has a smudge along her right cheekbone. She's flushed and bright-eyed, in her element in the workshop in a way that makes his stomach swoop a little.

"Just for the carrying," he clarifies, cutting his eyes to the way her leather apron sits over the swell of her stomach. She is strong and hardy, and he has no reason to fear for either her or their unborn child's safety, but that doesn't stop him. Gloin assures him it is part of the territory for a first time father.

The usual small projects she works on - the apothecary in Dale has put in a large order for glassware - don't concern him. The large bowl she intends to make today though will require a large, heavy amount of molten glass, and she has mentioned that the changing weight distribution of her body has made her stumble a few times.

"Thank you," she smiles at him, putting her tools ready at her work station. "I will do the gathering, and if you would bring it over to me?"

Thorin goes over to her side of the large royal workshop, the place that used to be his refuge and now feels empty if she is not working opposite him. He shucks his heavy leather workgloves as he slowly crowds her against the workbench, grinning at the sharp way she draws breath. He loves that they can still affect each other this way well over a year into their marriage, that she tips her face up to give him a smile that's just a touch breathless.

He cups her face and kisses her slow and lingering, pours himself into her mouth to mouth. All his pride of her keen mind and steady hands - she is the only Master Glassblower in hundreds of miles, and even the Elves admire her craftsmanship. All his joy and love and excitement over the child growing within her.

They are both a little breathless when the kiss ends, and he chuckles as she presses her face against the side of his throat, warm breath against the sweat-damp skin above his smiths apron. She stays like that for the space of a few moments, and pressed together as they are he can feel her chest heaving, her rounded belly pressed against him. The intimacy of it still startles him after all this time, how close he feels to her here in the smithy while they are separated by layer upon layer of protectively heavy leather.

"You distract me," she says against his skin, and pushes him back a pace. He chuckles as the look of purpose that has returned to her face, at the focus of a craftswoman who was willing to be distracted for a moment, but will now get back to the matter at hand.

He dons his gloves again and opens the heatshields of the glass-forge for her, so she can dip in the blowpipe and gather up molten glass. She smoothly turns the pipe and dips until she has a large amount of glass, and he closes the shields the moment her load is clear. Then, as smoothly as he can, he takes over the blowpipe while she hurries to sit down at her workstation, and he carries the pipe with the glob of glass over to her, still turning it as he goes so it does not drip off.

She begins turning it over the rails next to her seat, hands working in tandem, and he is mesmerised as always. She doesn't notice him anymore, absorbed in the mastery of the material, and Thorin just sits on a low bench and watches his wife work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... just couldn't manage to make this more explicit. So it ends like this. It's working for me.


End file.
